Wrong Side of the Frame
Somewhere back there…
I missed the turn,
but the road kept going
and so did I.
Left a name on the desk,
never fit in the smoke or the steel.
Hands too soft, eyes too loud,
tried to fake what I couldn’t feel.
Dreams got filed under “not today”,
and I followed the noise to survive.
But even with boots on the ground,
I walked like I owed them my life.
And I’m still on the wrong side of the frame,
grown man with the same old flame.
I got love, I got a name—
but the silence hasn’t changed.
Some ghosts don’t age.
Pushed carts through closing doors,
wore years like they owed me a debt.
Raised a house with steady hands,
but the boy in the mirror never left.
I’ve smiled through the interview lights,
I’ve held warmth, I’ve held weight—
but some roads don’t lead anywhere,
they just circle back too late.
Yeah, I’m still on the wrong side of the frame,
driving forward in yesterday’s name.
I’ve got time, I’ve got a flame—
but I still can’t outrun the same
old shade of shame.
I know the lines by heart now,
how to nod, how to fade in the crowd.
But when the engines die down,
I still hear that silence loud.
The grease never touched my skin right,
the wheel never felt like a crown.
Just a kid in a borrowed future,
trying not to drown.
They said “you made it,” like that means a damn thing,
when you still taste seventeen in the rain.
Wife, kids, a job that pays—
but nothing ever cleaned the stain.
And I’m not bitter, I’m just tired,
and maybe that’s the same.
Fifty years and I still don’t know
how to step out of the frame.
Some roads break you slow—
quiet like rust in the soul.
Still on the wrong side of the frame,
laughing soft through a window of pain.
I’ve got hands that learned to stay—
but the fire’s still asking
for another way.
